Classic Poem

The creeds and histories of all the ages
Are handled in this book, and turn'd, and toss'd.
I grope my way throughout its labour'd pages,
Blindfolded and half lost.

O, is it lack of brain, or want of learning,
That keeps me boring—mole-like in my night—
Through erudition not one ray discerning
Of the redeeming light?

I close the book with which I've vainly striven,
And humbly on my ignorance I fall,
When, looking up, the starry gaze of heaven
Explains, explodes it all!